Victory or Sovngarde or Soldiers Without Sense
by INTIMIDATOR13
Summary: Join your favorite clan as they hijack Big Boss' hopes and dreams and accidentally invade Madagascar.
1. Chapter 1

**A highly classified document from the desk of the president himself, the leaking of which caused an international scandal…**

 **WARNING: CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. TOP LEVEL CLEARANCE ONLY.**

 **C.I.A. Report on P.M.C. "Victory or Sovngarde"**

The command structure of "Victory or Sovngarde"(henceforth referred to as VOS) is, at best, nebulous. While a "leader" has been identified, he appears to be more of a figurehead of a rather loose network rather than a true autocrat. While this had led some to speculate that VOS operates in cells, similar to modern terror groups, this theory has been dismissed as only one possible "cell" can even be identified.

 **2\. Infrastructure**

V.O.S. maintains an oil rig named "Sovngarde Prime," located in international waters approximately three hundred miles east of Somalia. The rig serves as the headquarters of the organization and as a major arms trading hub for the entire Eastern hemisphere. The rig is built in the hexagonal pattern made famous by former P.M.C. "Militaires San Frontieres" and is believed to have been designed by veterans of that organization. Prime is constantly expanding, and as such, it is difficult to define it's borders.

 **3\. Equipment**

Firearms: The V.O.S. arsenal is incredibly varied, as recruits are instructed to bring their own weapons with them to join up. Everything from aging muzzle loaded weapons to top of the line modern assault rifles can be found in their inventory. The vast majority of the weapons, however, fall under the category of "glorious Slav-shit", Soviet-era surplus ripped from the hands of dead terrorists and the recently eradicated Somalian pirate population. A significant sum of modern Chinese weaponry is flowing into V.O.S. as well, leading some to speculate the organization having Triad contacts.

Tanks/Armor: A motley collection of aging vehicles, mostly stolen from African warlords, comprise the V.O.S. armored division. Most common is the old Soviet T-62, though at least one of the American-made tanks given to Iraqi Army forces and subsequently stolen by I.S.I.S. has been recovered. Unconfirmed reports also indicate the presence of refurbished Shermans, Panzers, and a trained rhino covered in Kevlar with an M60 on his back.

Transport Vehicles: Innumerable rusty jeeps and civilian cars with machine guns duct-taped to the roofs comprise the transport division. Of particular concern is the fleet of monster trucks that have recently gone missing from the American circuit and are believed to be in V.O.S. possession.

Artillery: V.O.S. has a single Confederate cannon, stolen from a Civil War museum in South Carolina. There are also a handful of crude catapults loaded with cow feces.

Helicopters: V.O.S. possesses a huge fleet of Russian Hinds.

Note: V.O.S. lacks enough trained pilots to fly said Hinds. Satellite images show Sovngarde helicopters crashing into trees in nearly every single engagement in which they are deployed.

Planes: V.O.S. possesses three crop dusters and a bright red zeppelin with the words "Free Bird" painted on the side.

Navy: The V.O.S. flotilla is as varied as it's small arms selection, though a common theme of "duct tape more guns to it" seems to persist throughout the fleet. The flagship is the "V.O.S.S. Suck It Commies," a super-carrier nearly three times the length of an American super-carrier, made entirely out of scrap metal and duck tape. The ship boasts a working nuclear reactor(apparently made with materials stolen from Chernobyl), state of the art weapons systems(bought on the Chinese black market), a semi-functional catapult, and a hot tub, though it is unclear as to whether or no that tub is a real Jacuzzi or just a tank holding the run-off from the nuclear waste.

 **4\. Personnel**

Troop Numbers: V.O.S. is estimated to have between one hundred and two hundred thousand members, though that number is ever-increasing.

Recruitment: V.O.S. offers work to "Anyone who can point a gun the right way," pulling in recruits from every nation, race, religion, and ideology, offering a signing bonus to anyone who can "Bring some cool shit in" with them. V.O.S. also kidnaps enemy soldiers via the fulton recovery system and offers them the choice to join or swim home.

 **5\. Idealogy**

V.O.S. declares to be a "Free state" where every man can "Do basically whatever the hell they want." Those living in the V.O.S. flotilla enjoy unrestricted gun rights, freedom of religion, and freedom of speech, with two important caveats. According to the V.O.S. constitution, "Anyone who suggests the repression of any of these core rights is immediately exiled, thrown into the ocean and forced to swim three-hundred miles through shark-infested Somalian waters in the vain hope of reaching land without being ripped apart by angry sea creatures, which may or may not include a malfunctioning mechanical shark that we bought from Amazon but lost the remote to so now it just keeps ripping holes in the side of the damned oil rig. Oh, and fuck Brazil."

 **6\. Economy**

V.O.S. territory is a "Free trade zone" where all manner of commerce is allowed. With absolutely no rules but incredibly safe waters, patrolled by V.O.S. ships, the rig has become a massive trading hub for international trades of all kinds, many of which would be banned in most other countries. The utter lack of regulation has enabled the V.O.S. economy to rise meteorically in the few months since the main base was established. While having the lack of regulation makes it hard to track V.O.S.' development, it is estimated that their GDP now rivals that of Norway and will surpass Canada's within the month.

 **7\. Force Projection**

V.O.S. takes contracts around the world and can strike anywhere at any time. This was demonstrated most recently in the daring day-time raid on a German prison, followed by the single greatest accordion heist in recorded history. It is unclear if the events are related, though a huge message reading "Remove kebab" could be seen, spray-pained on the deck of the ultra-carrier soon after.

 **Assessment:**

V.O.S. continues to develop at an alarming rate. However, given the group's apparent pro-Western leanings, it does not appear to pose a threat to the United States. If anything, the C.I.A. would like to take this opportunity to formally request funding in order to hire the company for jobs that require a brute force approach.

 **Addendum:**

Mr. President, by the time this report reaches you, it will be inaccurate. At 0400 hours this morning, V.O.S. successfully conquered Madgascar, expanding their resource pool considerably.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: A Nation Without Borders Learns About Where Borders Are**

Three hours. That is how long it took for Victory or Sovngarde's top tactician to get over his recent case of explosive diarrhea, brought about by exposure to a defective Chinese hot pocket. This general, an average height, dark-haired man, had missed out on most of the most recent mission because of this. He'd left the war room under the command of one of his aides, a possible Nazi descendant named Hans. Hans had been recruited from Argentina and arrived at the rig in full Wermacht regalia, though he swore no relation to anyone from the former Third Reich. He claimed to have just "found some Nazi stuff" in a box somewhere.

"Ah, mein fuehrer! You have returned!" greeted Hans as his commander entered the room.

"I told you to stop calling me that," replied Jack Redgrave, V.O.S.'s designated tactician and most common figurehead as he shuffled into the room, both hands still gripping his stomach. Despite already being an incredibly white individual on most days, Jack had reached a new level of paleness, brought about by the ass-exploding horror of his ailment. He limped past innumerable computer screens and fans to reach the central war room table where Hans was standing. Relieved, he leaned on the table and started looking over the map. "Report, Hans. Attempt to do so in the least Reich-ish manner possible. We are seriously not Nazis. All are welcome amongst our ranks."

"Ja, commander, even…" Hans paused for a moment, his lower lip seeming to tremble, "even Der Juden."

"Especially Der Juden! Israel gives us a ton of contracts! Remember, you don't have to like anyone in our army, but you do have to respect them. Our founding principle is freedom for all men!"

"Ja commander."

"Now report."

Hans cleared his throat uncomfortably before shifting several little metal pieces about on the war table.

"As you can see, ze First Luftwa-I mean, aerial division encountered little resistance. When der pirates saw a blimp labeled "Free Bird," zey must have thought zat it vas an aerial concert. Zey found out zat zey were wrong far too late. By zat time, der crop dusters were making runs, dispensing zere toxic clouds of concentrated AXE body spray."

"Seriously, please try to sound less Hitler-ish. I really don't like allowing a German-sounding guy to deploy gas based weaponry. It makes us look bad."

"Sorry, fuehrer." Hans cleared his throat again, doing his best to put on an American accent. What came out sounded like Clint Eastwood deprived of water for several days, but Jack figured that it would be the best that he would get.

"Furthermore, who the hell painted the words "Free Bird" on the side of the blimp? Wouldn't a _Led Zeppelin_ track make more sense?"

"Yes, but that is the joke, sir. We're an army of freedom, so we can name our blimps different things."

"I guess that makes sense, but I don't expect our enemies to think about things that far before we bomb them. Most of them can't even read. Maybe I can convince the owner to re-think the name."

"Probably not, sir. After all, this bird you cannot change."

"Nice. Moving on, what is going on here?" asked Jack, pointing at the boat figurines on the wrong border of Somalia. "There aren't any pirate bases for us to hit that far inland. Furthermore, how would you even get boats over there? That's a land border."

"I'm afraid you've lost me, sir. We've been able to surround the entire country with our fleet."

"That's impossible. Kenya and Ethiopia are not a bodies of water."

Hans looked over the map and shifted his collar uncomfortably.

"Uh oh."

"Hans, what did you do?"

"We followed your orders, sir. Encircle and destroy all the designated pirate bases and take their stuff, but I was wondering why we were encountering so much resistance. It was almost like we were fighting a real army…"

"Hans, don't tell me."

"Maybe that's why they were wearing uniforms…"

"Hans…"

"And why they had a presidential palace…"

Hans!"

"Mein fuehrer, I regret to inform you that we may have attacked sites in the wrong country. I believe that our men have actually not fought any of the targeted Somalian pirates at all, but have invaded and conquered the sovereign nation of Madagascar."

"You had one job, Hans. One job."

The door to the war room suddenly flew open and several high-ranking V.O.S. personnel rushed in, carrying an eastern European man in a prison jumpsuit on their shoulders.

"Guys! We found the "Remove kebab" accordion guy!"

Jack let his head fall onto the table and stifled a scream of impotent rage. Why was he surrounded by so many idiots?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Now That's News You Can Use!**

Jack remained hunched over his "war table", which was actually just a circular table with a _Risk_ board on top. His crashing face had scattered the innumerable figurines and repurposed _Monopoly_ pieces about nonsensically, with the one boot piece landing about where Tokyo would be.

"Guess what guys?" he mumbled, still clutching his Hot Pocket-ravaged stomach. "Hans here invaded Madagascar."

"Cheer up, Brennus!" replied "ClothMonster", one of the high-ranking operatives that had entered room, a genocidal Serb hoisted upon his shoulders. Cloth was another, average height man. He wore a black, elastic "stealth suit", which helped him to stay hidden on important missions. Upon his left shoulder was an old, "Miltaires Sans Frontieres" patch, a leftover from his time with a different P.M.C. Cloth's faced was covered by a red bandana and some sunglasses, giving him his official codename. A massive, uncombed jew-fro adorned his head, giving him some degree of protection from getting shot in the cranium. "We got the kebab remover guy! You know, the one with the accordion!"

The quiet, Eastern European man's expression remained still. Despite years of imprisonment, he still bore the distinctive blue-striped paint on his face from the music video for which he was known. There was an aura of quiet masculinity surrounding the man, but if one were to stare into his eyes for long enough, one would see the soul of a poet, an artist, a man who yearned to express himself and his desire to remove kebabs in a way that would touch the hearts of other men. Through his art, this rogue Serb would explore the soul-wrenching questions that kept philosophers up at night. Why are we here? Why do I have this accordion? Why are we discussing philosophy when we could be removing kebab?

As the gentle titan descended from the ClothMonster's shoulders, a young recruit delivered him his new accordion, one obtained in V.O.S.'s recent, record-breaking accordion heist. Never before had any organization stolen such a high quantity of accordions. Never before had any organization even had the idea of stealing so many accordions. Regardless of the origin of the instrument, the accordion maestro took to it immediately. With a grand push of his hands, Captain Serbia produced a noise so beautiful that it very nearly brought everyone present to tears. In between sniffles, Jack addressed the group.

"Right, we're working with codenames now. I guess Brennus will do."

"We're not calling you Vercingeto-whatever. Codenames are supposed to be descriptive and efficient. An abundance of syllables means a drought of efficiency."

"Thanks, Confucius. Anyway," Brennus began, finally removing his head from the table, "Mr. Meme, what is your name? I've heard of you, but I don't know what we should call you. Will you be joining us, or will you hitch a ride with one of the merchant ships and head off?" The Serbian man remained silent. Eventually, he moved his accordion again, producing several, soft notes. "Uh, do you not speak?" The Serb made an affirmatory-sounding note in response. "Right. You just go do…Serbian things. We'll call you if we need kebabs removed." The joyful accordion man nodded and left the room. "Now, onto business. Hans screwed up, big time. We invaded Madgascar by accident. This is bad. We need to get on damage control. Maybe we could just apologize and leave?"

"Nein, mein fuehrer. There is no one left to apologize to. The government has fled. The army is all either dead or routed. We are left with a bunch of confused civilians and empty arms depots."

"Crap baskets. How is the international community handling this? Is the media making a big deal out of it?"

As if in response to the question, Pilgrim, a tall, dark haired man in a ridiculous cowboy outfit, slammed open the door to the war room.

"Jack, what the literal Hell? Have you seen what the news is saying about us?"

"For the record, this is Han's fault, as I was on the toilet for the duration of this operation."

"Just look!" Pilgrim half-yelled, grabbing a television remote off of one of the tables and turning the room's television on. He switched it first to Fox news, where a breaking news alert was showing. The blimp labeled "Free Bird" was shown, floating above the burning presidential palace. Curiously enough, the blimp's label was replaced by poorly photo shopped squiggly lines that vaguely resembled Arabic text.

"These images are of the Islamic terrorist group, "Victory or Sovngarde", launching a vicious and unprovoked attack against the peaceful, island nation of Madagascar. What does this mean for the balance of power in the region? And what do these violent extremists want?"

"Well, Tom, thank you for having me on the show. I'm an expert on Islamic radicals, and these men believe that dying in battle against the hated infidels is the surest way to get to their crazy Muslim heaven, called "Sovngarde". These savages have no respect for human life, and it's a disgrace that our weak-wiled, communist president refuses to even acknowledge-" Pilgrim changed the channel to CNN, turning his head back towards his comrades.

"It gets worse." CNN was also covering the developing story, but had put their trademark liberal slant on the information. The image that they decided to show was of Wermacht re-enactors fighting alongside one of V.O.S.'s aging Panzer units.

"Tom, I'm here in Madagascar where the white supremacist group "Victory or Sovngarde" is expanding their "Ocean Reich" by invading the peaceful African nation of Madagascar. We have reports of mass gassing and people-burning employed against the peaceful civilian population who didn't do nothing and just want to live their lives without fear of discrimination by the white devil."

"That's horrible! When will these fascists learn that "Black Lives Matter"? What would cause people to take up this hateful cause?"

"It is awful indeed, Tom. Many respected sociologists would blame the Confederate flag, shown here painted on the side of one of this group's tanks, for perpetuating this legacy of racism."

"Many of this groups supporters are white Americans. Wouldn't we all be safer if we just banned all guns so that people like this can't harm the children?"

"Exactly, Tom! Think of the child-" Pilgrim cut off the reporter mid-sentence to change the channel to NBC. Brian Williams was reporting, the image of the blimp above the presidential palace playing behind him. Strangely enough, this time, the blimp was labeled with a picture of Brian Williams' face and a text reading, "Brian Williams is super-extreme and hangs out with us all the time." Before Brian Williams could even utter another lie, Pilgrim changed the channel again, this time to MSNBC. The blimp was pictured yet again, except now it had the words "Rape Culture" photoshopped onto it. A very angry woman began screaming into the microphone.

"Agh! I hate these cis-gendered blimp rapists who beat up trans-gendered, disabled, super-minorities with their stupid penises and rampant sexism in video-games!"

"That's right Tom, they sure are whatever it is that you just called them."

"Why do I have to be Tom? Why can't I be Tammy, or Lis-"

Pilgrim turned the television off.

"We're fucked, aren't we?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Hohoho, We Cultured Now**

As the sun set on a muggy Madagascar day, a mismatched horde of helicopters swarmed the skies above the presidential palace. Among the dozens of aging Soviet death machines, a blue helicopter stood out. Painted along the side door of this Hind was a mustachioed man with a Viking helmet. On the nose, in big, white letters, the mercenary label of V.O.S. was present. As this gaudy insult to Russian engineering made its way to the ground, a whole platoon of mercenary soldiers stood at attention. The doors opened up, making the painted man on the chopper look as if he was yelling. Out walked Brennus, ClothMonster and the secretary, Hans. They made their way towards a raised podium with a microphone, ready to give the first official press conference of their new government. This platform was placed on the front lawn of the presidential palace, the still smoking building in the background. A crowd of confused civilians had gathered outside of the tightly secured gates, waiting to hear what was even going on. As the party approached the platform, a few soldiers broke rank and began cheering on their glorious leader.

"It's the boss! Three cheers for the boss!"

"His strategies lead us to overwhelming victory! Boss, over here!"

"I really wish they would stop calling you that," Cloth muttered.

"Let's just get this over with. With Pilgrim working on the media for us, all I have to do is make a speech or two to make us look good."

"Mein fuehrer, if I may, I believe I have a final solution to our worries."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"You see, when one makes a mistake, it is often better to lie about it than to admit it. Why should a great leader accept blame when he can displace it? What you need is an effective scapegoat on which to blame all of your troubles. For instance, der juden-"

"No, Hans, we're not blaming the Jews."

"Maybe just a little? Perhaps some Zionist commandos planted false evidence of terrorist activity here?"

"No."

"Maybe the international banking conglomerates-"

"No."

"You are really no fun at all, mein fuehrer."

The party finally made their way to the stage. Brennus cleared his throat dramatically, motioned for his adoring fans to shut up for a moment, then began his address.

"Good people of Madagscar, your leaders have abandoned you. Your military lies in shambles. Many are dead, the rest, routed. You stand on the precipice of destruction." Brennus paused for dramatic effect. "And yet, there is hope. By some freak accident of fate, we have come to your rescue, ready to stand with you against the terrors of the modern world. Somalian pirates claw at your harbors, but we will drive them back. Islamic radicals from Boko Haram threaten your cities, but we will see them perforated like so much cheese. See us not as your conquerors, but rather, as your saviors. Under our tutelage, all men can be free. Your liberty is right in front of you, if you will but embrace it."

"He's good. He's also full of shit. He completely left out the part where we were the ones that accidentally attacked all of their bases and scared their government into exile." Cloth noted, whispering to Hans.

"He must lie! No true fuehrer can build an empire on truth. The unthinking masses must be told what they wish to hear."

Brennus continued for some time, praising the values of his own organization and talking extensively about how much communism sucked.

"And that is why Madagscar will thrive, even in this time of adjustment. Now, are there any questions?"

"Quesque tu avec le president?"

"Queso what now?"

"Tu est Americaine?"

"Oh, I think I get it. You guys speak French here. Oh boy. Je ne comprende beaucoup de Francais, mais, un peu. J'mappelle Brennus et-"

"C'est le Allemagnes! Le Nazis!"

"Non, c'est Muslimes! Boko Haram!"

"Mon dieu, c'est Brian Williams!"

Brennus slammed his face into the podium. The day didn't seem like it could get any worse, but his troubles were just beginning. Soon, he would have to face off against a much more powerful foe than the confused citizens of Madagascar…


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Downsides of Hiring Literally Anyone**

Brennus looked over a stack of papers in the command room. He had changed clothes after the failed press conference and was now sporting a well preserved Confederate general's uniform, likely stolen from the same museum V.O.S. got their one cannon from. ClothMonster was present as well, anxiously working the bolt back and forth on an old Mosin Nagant.

"These numbers are great. We really have a lot of good equipment now."

"It's ancient Soviet tech. It comes from the fine folks who gave us Chernobyl. I wouldn't call this gear all that good."

"Yeah, but there's a lot of it! We can probably give every moron on the oil rig an automatic weapon now! We even have tanks that weren't made for the Second World War! And look, there are planes with jet engines attached to them! We don't have to rely on a blimp anymore!"

"Good. I was getting tired of that damned thing blocking out the sun every time I went outside."

"This whole debacle may actually turn out to be a boon for us. We have all of these empty army depots and airfields, all full of goodies. That being said, organizing all of this will be a monumental task. We really need everyone working double-time for the immediate future. Let's do a headcount. So, you and I are here. Pilgrim is working on the media."

"Our favorite brothers are working in the research lab."

"I think I saw Joker down by the tanks outside the presidential villa."

"That leaves Angel. I think he might be back in the States right now. He said something about visiting this folks soon."

"Well, here, let's check. I'll try to get him on the intercom."

Brennus made his way over the intercom system, hitting the button that corresponded to Angel's room.

"Hey, Angel, are you there?"

A loud, shuffling noise could be heard in reply. Suddenly, there was a crash, followed by what sounded like an accordion being thrown about.

"Angel?"

"Help! Help! I'm being attacked!"

The accordion noise returned, louder this time. Then, things went silent.

"Well, shit. We'd better get down there and help him."

The duo quickly made their way down to the barracks, where they came across Angel's thoroughly ransacked room. The door had been ripped off of it's hinges and a bookshelf had fallen over the bed. A single accordion was left on the floor.

"Oh shit. Where did he go?" Brennus asked aloud.

"Over here! Help! Someone, stop this madman!" came the reply.

"They must be outside!"

The duo quickly ran outside, ending up at a helipad. The pad was occupied by a hog-tied Angel and Captain Serbia, who was slowly dragging him towards the edge. An anchor was tied to Angel's feet. Brennus and Cloth had clearly come across a murder in progress.

"Woah! What the literal hell, Captain Serbia?"

The grim faced man replied with a blank stare, followed by a few notes on his accordion. He had apparently brought a spare along for his attack.

"I don't speak accordion! Use words!" Brennus demanded, slamming his face into his palm. The Serbian assailant was silent for a few seconds. Sighing, he relented to the request.

"He is kebab. I remove kebab."

"Can you please shoot this racist fucker and untie me already?"

"No, Captain Serbia, he's not a kebab, he's our friend."

The genocidal Serb looked down at Angel, then back towards Brennus and Cloth, then back towards Angel again.

"Is Mexican?"

"Okay, even I have to say that one was a little racist," commented Cloth.

"I will wear a sombrero every day for the rest of my life if you will untie me!"

"No, he's not a Mexican. He's Persian."

"So, is kebab. I remove kebab."

"Seriously, this is not cool!"

"Look, not every brown person is a terrorist."

"Yes. Some are Mexicans."

"No, I mean, Middle Eastern people can be normal too. Angel is a nice guy, not a kebab. You can't just remove him."

"You are the naïve. Is brown, and is not of the Mexican, thus, is kebab."

"No, he's not."

"You waste my time. I shall be of the leaving. There is being kebab to be removed, and I shall be of remove it. Is, how do say, calling of life. I remove kebab."

With that, the eastern-European killing machine played a strong note on his accordion, summoning forth a magical gale that carried him off to parts unknown. As the wind died down, the remaining party stared, mouths agape. Brennus face-palmed once more. Angel finally spoke up again.

"So, can someone untie me now?"

"Sir!" yelled a panicked looking recruit, rushing out the helipad. "We've got a problem! An American fleet is headed right for us!"

"What? Are they merchants?"

"No, sir!"

"How about more of our oppressed brothers, who seek to join us and flee an increasingly socialistic and draconian system of government surveillance, gun restrictions, thought crimes, and general insults to the Constitution and the American spirit?" Brennus smiled for a second, imagining a massive, waving American flag appearing behind himself as patriotic music played and busty women in star spangled bikinis posed with hamburgers and firearms. He would have a true "land of the free", even if he had to build it on an oil tanker off the coast of Somalia.

"No, sir! It's the military! I mean the actual military!"

"Oh. Oh shit. Well, guys, we're fucked."

"Can someone please untie me now?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Nothing Is Impossibru To He That Will Try**

The announcement of an approaching American fleet sent V.O.S. into a panic. Brennus rushed back to the war room to scheme a way to somehow defeat or deter the most powerful military in recorded history, leaving Cloth to untie Angel. As beleaguered recruits ran back and forth, prepping the mother base for battle, Cloth quietly went to work on the labyrinthine rope knot that Captain Serbia had used to tie up Angel. Cloth quickly realized that more than one knot had actually been employed. It appeared to be a series of incredibly intricate knots that would put even the greatest eagle scouts to shame.

"So, Angel, how did Captain Serbia get the jump on you, anyway?"

"I was sleeping. I awoke to see a figure standing over my bed. Before I could react, he smacked he with the accordion, knocking me out instantly. I don't know how long I was out, but the intercom woke me back up."

"It must have been a long time. This knot is really, really intricate. Ah, dammit." Cloth came to the realization that he was probably only making the problem worse. The bindings could not be untied. "You know how Brennus is a history nerd? He has this one story about Alexander the Great. Legend has it, there was this incredibly complex knot. Whoever should untie the knot would become master of Asia. Alexander didn't untie it, but, instead, simply cut in half."

"That's cool, I guess. Why do you mention that?"

"Hold still. I'm about to get Hellenic up in this bitch." Cloth drew his favorite knife, a weapon that was better defined as a small sword. It was a kukiri, bare of any ornamentation. What it did have was an incredibly sharp blade. Taking the weapon to the Serbian rope, he tried to chop the knot away. It did not budge. "What the? Hang on, I'll try and saw it off." Cloth applied the pressure, moving the blade back and forth. Nothing happened. Angry, he raised his blade up high and tried slashing downwards with tremendous force. There was a loud clanging noise and the dagger snapped in half.

"What was that?" Angel queried, disturbed by the loud sound.

"Holy shit. Serbian rope is not to be fucked with. Look, just stay here for a minute. I'm going to get a fork-lift and take you over to the foundry. Maybe something can cut through this over there."

"It's not like I have a choice."

Cloth drove Angel across Mother Base, laughing a little inside at the preparations he saw occurring amongst the soldiers. Morale was all over the place. There was a large contingent of angry rednecks who happily drank beer and waved Confederate flags, all while screaming various, creative obscenities about getting their revenge on the Yankees. A group of Japanese nationals was also present, waving rising sun flags and joyfully shooting Arisaka rifles into the air. For every happy face, however, there was one of terror. Many rational soldiers seemed on edge. Some seemed to be packing up their gear in preparation to flee. Another soldier could be seen jumping off of the oil rig and beginning the long swim to Somalia, apparently preferring to take his chances with the robot shark rather than the American military.

Finally reaching the foundry, Cloth dragged Angel inside. V.O.S.'s foundry contained many tools for special projects outside of the parameters of the main manufacturing plant. There were buzz saws, chainsaws, and even a working laser. Cloth tried every device imaginable. The buzz saw dulled within seconds. Twelve chainsaws were tried, each one breaking down as the teeth broke upon the unmoving rope. The laser quickly overheated, as the rope somehow reflected energy. Cloth even pulled out a large diamond and attempted to use it to cut through the bindings, only to have it shatter in his hands.

"Well, fuck. You should have just pretended to be Mexican. Then our meme guy would have untied you."

"Am I seriously fucking stuck like this?"

"Hey, at least the anchor came off."

"Excuse me, but are you gaijins having trouble?"

An enormous, pasty white male in his mid-20's approached, bearing a trench coat, a fedora, and a rising sun headband wrapped around said fedora. Beneath the open trench coat, an ill-fitting tee shirt, bearing the indecipherable logo of some awful shojo, just barely covered up a bulging stomach. A massive blob of curdled nacho cheese was present in the man's impressive neck beard. Euphorically, he tipped his fedora and introduced himself.

"My name is Akihiko-san, though I was called "Steve" before I embraced the enlightenment of Japanese culture and the eastern ways. I see that you're having some trouble cutting through that rope."

"Yup, Angel seems pretty fucked."

"Worry not, younglings, for I have, in my possession, the ultimate weapon. You see, unlike your inferior, western weapons, my blade can cut through anything. Behold!" Pushing his trench coat back with both hands while making retarded swooshing noises with his mouth, "Akihiko-san" produced a sheathed katana. He held it dramatically above his head as he addressed our heroes. "This is a mighty katana, forged in the tears of the filthy gaijins who once made fun of me for reading manga in elementary school!"

"How'd you get their tears?"

"Brennus fed them to the robo-shark as my sign-on bonus. He gave very good deals to any blacksmiths that he could find. Now behold!" The rotund fedora man unsheathed his blade, then held it in a ridiculous reverse grip posture above his head in a vain attempt to look cool. "This steel has been folded over a thousand times! Even Serbian kebab-killing rope cannot stand in its way! Hiyah!" The would-be ninja attempted to charge and swing down at Angel, but ran out of breath after a few steps forward and started panting. "Oh, dear. I, um, seem to be out of chi. I must have smithed too much. Yes, that is it. You! Jew-fro'd warrior! Honor the way of the samurai and carry on the fight in my name!"

"Sure, whatever, just give me the damned sword."

Cloth retrieved the weapon, holding it in a more practical manner. He looked at blade and rolled his eyes. It was very unlikely that such a primitive weapon would succeed where lasers had failed. Raising the sword high above his head, he slashed down, feeling no resistance and the blade connected. Miraculously, the knot had been severed with surgical precision.

"See! I folded that one thousand times! One thousand, oh, dear, I'm starting to get dizzy."

The fat man began wheezing. Soon, he passed out from exhaustion. Cloth returned the katana to its sheath, laying the weapon down respectfully by the comatose neck beard.

"Rest easy now, gentle weeaboo. You have done well."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Science!**

Cloth and Angel completed their quest and returned to the war room, which was much more crowded than usual. A number of men in Confederate uniforms surrounded Brennus, pointing down at the war table, which had been replaced while Cloth was untying Angel. Instead of the old world map _Risk_ board, one of just the United States circa 1962 was present.

"And if he we cut off the Yankees here," bellowed an older man who sort of looked like Robert E. Lee as he moved a _Monopoly_ piece across the board, "we can surround their southernmost divisions and break their supply chain."

"Gentlemen," Brennus began, pushing the new map off of the table, "I have no doubt that, with your amazing abilities of hindsight, you could come up with a plan to defeat the Union army of the Civil War. The problem is, we're not fighting that war! We have to deal with an America that has jet planes and assault rifles!"

"Perhaps if we used gatling guns…"

"Of course! Let's just shoot down an A-10 with a gatling gun! Have fun getting "brrrt"-ed all the way back to Gettysburg! Look, just get out of here. Go try and pump up the re-enactor divisions."

"Yes, sir!"

The various grey suited men left the room, leaving only Brennus, Angel, Hans, and Cloth behind.

"Well, we're fucked, aren't we?" asked Cloth, somewhat rhetorically.

"No. I refuse to give up here. We finally have our Outer Heaven, away from the system. No nanomachines, no controls…"

"The system is gone, now. We could go home."

"Is it really gone, Cloth? If so, for how long? How long until someone else tries to control the world? What liberty will be taken next for the sake of security? How much surveillance will we allow before we say enough is enough? No, the only way we can be free is to make our own future. Besides, the CIA probably already knows who we are. They'd just hunt us down more easily, back in the States." Brennus sighed. "We were doing so well, too, before Hans invaded a neutral country by accident."

"I apologize, mein fuehrer."

"There's no getting around it, now. We have to play the cards we've been dealt. Somehow, we have to deal with American intervention."

"Well," Angel started, "we know that we can't fight them directly. We don't have the numbers, the equipment, or the training."

"Perhaps stealth?" Cloth inquired. "We could send to the neck-beards with katanas on sabotage and assassination missions to disorder the enemy."

"Do you honestly think that would work?"

"No, but our base would smell nicer."

"How about we go into hiding while our men resist with guerrilla tactics? America sucks at finding people. We just hide out in Madagscar for a while until they try and fail to re-democratize the place and go home. That would take what, ten years, tops?"

"No, no, no! I am not living in a cave for ten years. Besides, we aren't terrorists. I love my home country. Ideally, we wouldn't fight Americans at all! I may want to live free of the system, but that doesn't make me a traitor."

"So, what, we surrender? That's not very much in line with our stated values."

"Yeah, as ironic as it is for Cloth to ever take a moral position, we do have standards here. We are called "Victory or Sovngarde", after all."

"I'm not saying that we surrender, just that we avoid fighting the people that we're supposed to be friends with! There has to be a way to defuse this whole thing! Pilgrim is working on making us look better to the public, but we need to give him time. Somehow, we need to distract the American military until we can convince their leaders to not attack us."

"We could send them snacks. Everybody likes snacks. Send an olive branch, but instead of an olive branch, it's like, a whole bunch of Funyons!"

"Yeah, that's smart! Everybody loves Funyons! Have the recruits fill up a tugboat full of boxes of Funyons to send to the American fleet!"

The orders were passed down and, an hour later, a tugboat full of processed, artery-clogging deliciousness was on its way to the fleet. Our three heroes watched the boat sail away from a deck of mother base through some binoculars.

"There they go! Crisis averted! It looks like everything is-"

As the boat approached the American fleet, it was swarmed by F-18's, which quickly bombed it into oblivion. A great fireball rose to the sky as funyons rained down in all directions. Brennus remained silent, unable to finish his sentence.

"They blew up the funyons. Who blows up funyons? Why would anyone do such a thing? Have our countrymen lost their minds?"

"Well, there goes that plan."

A happy jingle played out on Mother Base's loudspeakers, indicating a coming announcement. Mr. Bearry, a member of the science team, could be heard.

"Brennus, to the lab please. Brennus, to the lab."

The lab, in question, was located on one of the lower levels of V.O.S.'s mega-super-ultra carrier, docked next to Mother Base. A new, roomier facility was being built on a recently-added hex platform, connected to the main facility, but for the time, Mr. Bearry was stuck with a few, small spaces aboard the carrier. As Brennus and company entered the room, they could see how Bearry and his team had used every inch of the cramped quarters to the best of their abilities. The room itself bore five tables, each with some abomination of science upon it. There was a rail gun, multiple jars of bees, shrunken voodoo heads, and hundreds of books, including one labeled "Genetic Research For Dummies". The floor was littered with countless boxes, all containing supplies like food, scrap metal, or beakers. This main room was separated from a testing room by a metal door on the left side and a gigantic, reinforced glass barrier stretching along the rest of the wall.

"Ah, you guys have come!" greeted Mr. Bearry, a tall, dark haired man with friendly mutton-chops. He was wearing a lab coat, stained with some sort of green liquid. "Look what we did!" he commanded, pointing to the glass barrier. Beyond it stood several roaches, all the size of mini-vans. As if in response to the pointing, the creatures released a horrible hissing noise.

"What…"

"I don't even…"

"Why? How? What even are those?"

Before Bearry could reply, a tall man, features hidden by a radiation suit, walked through the main room and paused at the door to the testing room. He sighed audibly before opening the door and walking in.

"Who was that?" Brennus asked.

"Oh, that's Boxer. I did this crap last time, so it's his turn to transport the experiments." As the yellow suited man entered the room, Bearry moved in front of the glass, so that he was between his guests and the roaches. "Anyway, what we have here are Madagascar hissing cockroaches, exposed to unholy amounts of radiation." Boxer could be seen in the background, attempting to lasso one of the roaches. "I figured that we could use some sort of roach cavalry or something." Boxer's rope found its target, but the roach quickly reared up and pulled the rope right out of Boxer's hands. "They don't fly or bite, but they could really be an effective psychological weapon. Just imagine the fear in your enemies' hearts when they hear a hundred of these things hissing in the night!" The great roach went back down to the floor and began to charge right at Boxer, who, quite naturally, decided to book it, running out of view with both the aggressive roach and his friends following close behind.

"That would be perfect," Brennus began, rubbing his chin. "Do they swim?"

"They sure do," Bearry replied proudly. The roaches could been running back into view, Boxer hot on their heels with a flamethrower. The roaches cowered in a corner as Boxer moved the flame closer and closer. He finally turned his device off before actually harming the beasts, then pointed angrily at the waiting cages. Defeated, the enormous insects complied.

"Excellent."

Less than an hour later, our heroes stood upon one of the upper decks o the Mother Base again, their eyes on the American fleet. A horrible hissing noise could be heard, and the orderly wall of grey was beset by gigantic blobs of brown. Despite being relatively docile and harmless, the roaches were incredibly curious, climbing all over the ships in search of plant life to consume. The American soldiers, very few of which understood that they were dealing with herbivores, understandably panicked at the sudden onslaught of hissing terror. The ships lit up with panicked friendly fire accidents. Soon, boats were sinking, hit by friendly shells, missiles, and rockets. At least one ship appeared to have sucked a roach into one of its turbines, jamming it and causing an explosion. Pandemonium ensued on the carrier as fighters scrambled. One fighter took off a little too late and slammed right into a curious roach that had wandered on to the deck.

"Well, that takes care of that. Let's go back to the war room."

Pilgrim was waiting for the party, remote control in hand.

"Guys, I've fixed our media problem."

The television in the back of the room came on, and Pilgrim turned it to NBC. The same lying reporter who had placed his name over the blimp was featured once more, now wearing an "I Love V.O.S." shirt.

"Tonight, we go to a story about of band of heroic mercenaries. I'm one of them, and we do all kinds of heroic things…"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Blame North Korea for Everything**

 **Disclaimer: No memes were harmed in the making of this story.**

It was a quiet day at an anonymous terrorist training camp in Shit-hole-istan. Hakeeb, a lowly ISIS soldier, was enjoying a pleasant afternoon of watching sinful Western television while his commander was spending some quality time with the village's prettiest goat. Attempting to drown out the sounds of bestial passion and his own jealousy, Hakeeb turned up the volume before flipping mindlessly through the channels. He finally stopped on a news network, where he saw an unfolding story taking place in the international waters between Madagascar and Somalia.

"Breaking news! Gigantic hissing cockroaches have attacked an American fleet near Madagascar."

"That's right Tom. Fortunately, a friendly private military organization in the area named "Victory or Sovngarde" has come to the rescue. That's them, with the Viking helmets."

"Where did these monsters even come from? Do roaches actually get that big?"

"No, they appear to be mutants. Experts are pointing the finger at North Korea, who, as you know, was discovered smuggling nuclear materials, just yesterday. This attack is believed to be a form of payback for the recent international reaction."

"Will this mean a war with North Korea? Stay tuned, folks."

"Hah! Silly infidels!" Hakeeb laughed, pointing at the screen. "Attacked by cockroaches! Oh, Allah, my sides!"

Hakeeb kept laughing hysterically. As such, it would be some time before he noticed a new noise, slowly increasing in the background. In between Hakeeb's raucous laughter, the confused news reports and the goat noises coming from next door, the chicken dance could be heard playing. It was distant, at first, but it kept getting closer and closer until Hakeeb took notice. Like a religiously extreme cat, the curious Mohammedan got up and placed his ear to the wall, trying to determine what in in the name of the prophet was going on. He would get his answer, and possibly his seventy-two virgins, rather quickly.

With a loud crash, a two-seater dune buggy slammed through the concrete, smacking the lone terrorist and pinning him face-first against the wall on far side of the room. Bloodied and barely able to breathe, Hakeeb turned his head around as much as he could manage in order to see his attackers. Two men sat in the buggy, one in WW2-era American surplus, the other wearing some obscure camouflage pattern from the Cold War that likely originated in Rhodesia. Both men had their respective faces covered with balaclavas, though what skin was showing was pale white. The driver motioned towards the pinned terrorist, then shouted an order in broken English with a horrendous Slavic accent.

"There, tovarisch! Remove kebab!"

Hakeeb panicked. The infidels had come, although, something was off. These infidels didn't sound very Western. In fact, they sounded more like the people of the distant land of vodka and potatoes where all the guns came from.

"Da, comrade!" responded the passenger, shouldering an aging Mosin Nagant as he prepared to fire. Hakeeb winced. He silently hoped that it wouldn't take long to get to paradise. No bullet ever came. There was an odd clicking noise, then silence. "Ah, nyet!" the pseudo-Slav half-yelled, maintaining his horrific accent. He tried to work the bolt on his rifle, but it would not budge. "Fucking cosmoline!" he screamed, finally giving up on the accent. Hakeeb calmed down a little. It appeared he would not be dying gloriously in battle against the hated western capitalist pig-dog infidels today. Angered, the rifle toting man threw down his Mosin and pulled out his sidearm, a common glock. The driver's eyes grew wide as he tried to stop the maniac.

"No, comrade! Be not of shoot! Is bom-"

It was too late, Dmitri. It was always too late. The foolish rifleman unleashed the awesome power of the glocknade, enveloping the entire compound in a scorching white light. Everything within a hundred meters of the doomsday weapon was annihilated at a molecular level. All that remained of the terrorist stronghold was a smoldering crater, occupied by a lingering mushroom cloud. When the reinforcement choppers arrived, all they found was death. Looking down at the destruction, the commanding officer of the mercenary forces shook his head in disappointment.

"Happens every summer."

Back at Mother Base, a drunken party was underway. With the cockroach incident being blamed on North Korea, Victory or Sovngarde was in the clear. To make things even better, lending support to the rescue operations had enabled the P.M.C. to gain some good press, for once. Brennus was looking over various reports in the war room, smiling from ear to ear. His was the kind of intellect that came around once in a generation, maybe less. He was truly a great leader of men, blessing everyone that he met with his very presence.

"Hey, dumb-ass," interrupted Cloth, handing Brennus a piece of paper. "I know you're busy flattering yourself over the recent victory, but another report came in. The team we sent after those terrorists came back. No loot. One of the morons blew up the whole compound."

"With what? We didn't even send that many explosives!"

"Well, one of the pistols is missing from the armory. It may have been a glock."

"Oh, dammit, not again!"

"You really need to stop recruiting people from that shitty Taiwanese cartoon website."

"But there's so many of them, all willing to die for pennies on the dollar! Some of them will work for ammo and waifu pillows! Hell, sometimes, they even bring their own guns!"

"Yeah, but they're weird. I think I saw one wearing a Bane mask, earlier. I don't want to be associated with them. Big Boss had this idea before the internet and we're not all devout followers of their "murder cube". Some of us just like guns and freedom. These freaks keep calling the regular troops "normies". They even called me a normie. I'm not a normie, am I?"

"Wait, wouldn't we want to be normies, if these people are the weird ones?" There was a moment of silence.

"Ignorance is truly bliss."

A bout of soul-searching commenced as V.O.S. lamented over the meme spewing monsters that they had become.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Big Iron On His Hip**

Brennus retired to his room for the night with several bottles of hard liquor. He didn't drink very often, but a particularly soul-crushing bout of depression had suddenly seized him upon his most recent discussion with Cloth.

"What have I become?" he mumbled in between great gulps. "The memes, I can't escape them! No, Jack, you are the memes!"

Cloth, for his part, spent the rest of the night on a random helipad in a fetal position. Several soldiers would come by and ask what was going on, but he would not reply. When a helicopter that was supposed to land on the pad approached, Cloth finally snapped and began waving his arms angrily at the sky.

"Wow, so insanity! Very madness!"

The rest of V.O.S. was in much better shape. The brothers of R&D&D were finally able to move their lab over to the recently constructed research platform, giving them much more space to work on bigger projects, such as the Metal Gear RAY that that they had been wanting to build. Formerly, they had only had room to build car-sized robots and mechs. Mr. Bearry was particularly giddy to start working on his top secret weapon, known only as "Operation Crab Battle".

Angel, still recovering from the "Serbia" incident, decided to just go back to sleep. Joker spent the evening counting money, as he had been incredibly poor before becoming a mercenary and thus thoroughly enjoyed the simple pleasure of throwing great stacks of bills up into the air, counting them, placing them in even stacks and then throwing them up into the air again.

Pilgrim would have liked the chance to relax, but, as the group's public relations guy, he had another important mission. Tonight, he was meeting, of all people, Iran's supreme leader. Said leader had contacted V.O.S. directly, requesting a personal audience. As most of the contracts that V.O.S. took on were blatantly pro-Western and Brennus tended to regularly publicly denounce Iran and every other theocratic state that he knew existed, an olive branch was surprising, and, more importantly, potentially profitable! As much as Brennus had protested even speaking with "a state sponsor of terrorism and commie slime", viewing it as a step on the path towards "selling out", he had been out-voted by the other high ranking Sovngarde members, all of whom had decided that just talking couldn't possibly hurt.

Pilgrim's helicopter finally reached the designated meeting point, a remote village, high in the mountains. Said village appeared to have been abandoned for years, apparently, after a battle. The stone on its buildings was crumbling, torn at by decades of wind and sand. One empty lot showed battle scars, the foundations of a lost building peeking through rubble. Beside it, a torn apart market was visible, its ancient pots and rugs riddled with bullet holes. At the center of the lost hamlet was a small mosque, which, despite its humble appearance, still managed to be greater in size than any other structure in town. A devout people had lived here, once. Their lives were likely simple, pious peasants living alone in the mountains, away from the cares and temptations of the larger world of flesh. One day, however, they had rubbed up against the wrong kinds of people. Perhaps they had spoken out against the revolution and paid the price. Perhaps they had simply fallen prey to bad luck, their remote location making them easy prey for a gang of ruffians. Either way, someone had killed this land and its people, reducing them to a hazy memory.

Now, however, the little town buzzed with life again. Of course, that life was not that of the villagers, but of dozens of heavily armed men, all in jet black uniforms with black masks. As Pilgrim descended from his chopper, he was greeted by a short man in a suit. While he did not wear any weapons openly, the obvious bulge in his shirt betrayed his back-up plan. He addressed Pilgrim, his English clear and crisp, though bearing a distinctive regional flavor.

"Greetings, Mr. Pilgrim. Our leader is expecting you. Right this way, please." The professional looking man led Pilgrim past rows of guards, towards the ancient mosque. At the door, a guard stopped Pilgrim.

"I'm going to have to ask you to turn over your weapon."

Pilgrim carried the same gun with him everywhere that he went. It was a Colt 1911 with extensive modification. It bore a shortened barrel, a custom hammer, a "skeletonized" trigger(which spooked many enemies), a snake skin grip, and a custom sight. Instead of the usual notch on the back and post in front, the weapon bore a trench sight, a groove running along the top of the barrel. Greek text ran along the sides of the gun, quoting a passage from the Book of John. Pilgrim, the ironically codenamed atheist, when asked about the passage and his connection to the faith, would simply reply with praise of Mormon gun manufacturing.

The guard reached for the exquisite weapon holstered at Pilgrim's waist. In a flash, Pilgrim struck, his unique twist on CQC coming into play as he slapped the guard's arm away and delivered a Texas-sized headbutt. As the panicked onlookers reached for their weapons, Pilgrim drew his gun and aimed down at the shocked guard, who had slumped down to his knees, clutching his clearly broken nose in pain.

"And the light shineth in darkness and the darkness comprehended it not."

"Assassin!"

"Open fire!"

"Silence!" rang out an authoritative voice, coming from within the mosque. "If the infidel wishes to mock our customs, then he may. I have come to expect less from Westerners."

"I don't ever put this gun down," Pilgrim replied to the voice inside.

"Then don't. Let him pass."

Pilgrim holstered his weapon. Slowly, the amassed force of guards lowered their various AK variants as well. An uncomfortable silence fell over the town, naught but the wailing wind producing noise. The noise was joined by spurs that jingle jangled as Pilgrim entered the mosque, ready to negotiate a deal that would change the course of modern history.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:** **Such A Lust for Revenge**

Pilgrim entered the dusty mosque. He came to a large, central room containing an aged man and a table with two chairs. The old man, features half-hidden by shadow, motioned towards the empty chair across from him.

"Sit," the man stated flatly.

"Only if you say the magic word," Pilgrim retorted, half surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. Though possessing a considerable wit, he tended not to be so disrespectful towards people. Being a massive dick all the time was more Cloth's thing. Unfortunately for Iran's supreme leader, someone had tried to touch Pilgrim's gun, an action which no one got away with.

"Please sit down before I shoot you."

"Much better."

The aged world leader sighed, leaning forward towards his guest, revealing his features in the light. He wore a plain, black robe and an equally plain turban. Simple, oval glasses adorned his face, lending a sense of, if not dignity, then, at least, experience to his façade. With a look of fatigue, disgust, and outright confusion, the geriatric dictator addressed Pilgrim.

"I thought you were the professional one. I specifically asked for someone who isn't a complete jackass. Why not send Angel? Wouldn't sending someone with the language skills of the client country make more sense than a cowboy?"

"Angel was a little tied up."

"I see," the leader replied, passing a packet of files across the table. "To business, I suppose. Do you recall the chaos of the fall of the Patriot's system?"

"Yes. On the day the system went down, every military in the world fell into panic. Guns, tanks, planes, and bombs all ceased to work."

"During this chaos, some sensitive items were stolen. We need your group to retrieve them."

"You'll have to be more specific than that. What items? Who stole them? Why is this important."

"The items you will be employed to retrieve will be in large, green cases. What they contain is none of your business. The culprits were a mixture of hardliner groups and simple thieves who thought to make a quick profit by betraying their homeland. Those thieves that we have not caught will likely resist you quite violently. You must kill them. We've tracked each of these groups as best as we could. There are four locations, each of which is covered in this intel package."

"You're not telling me enough. Why is this so important? What are we retrieving and why can't you retrieve these items yourself? Surely, you could arrange for extradition of these criminals."

"That is out of the question. No foreign group can no that these items are missing, or that they even exist. Listen to me, Pilgrim. I despise America. I despise the great Satan and its European and Jewish puppets. There are some wars, however, that we do not need to fight. I do not wish to bring violence and harm upon my people or yours. If these secrets are discovered by anyone in the West, there will be war. Unlike the foolish North Koreans, I wish to avoid such pointless bloodshed. Now, enough questions. I contacted your organization because of its willingness to bend the rules. If you will not do this quietly, then do not do it at all. I assure you, you will be well compensated. We will negotiate a price now…"The conversation was interrupted by a strange sound in the distance. The aged leader twitched uncomfortably, then scanned the room in a fit of paranoia. He smiled, laughed, and turned back towards Pilgrim. "I'm sorry, for a second there, I thought I heard an accordion." The sound returned again, louder this time. Whatever it was, it was getting closer! Gunfire erupted outside, coupled with panicked screams. A group of guards ran into the room, their distraught visible, even through the balaclavas.

"Supreme Leader! We have to go, now!"

The old man looked at Pilgrim, his eyes wide with fear.

"I didn't think it was possible. Has he returned? I heard that your organization staged a jailbreak in Germany today, but, but…" The leader's voice trailed off for a moment. The accordion sound returned, followed by more gunfire, an explosion, and screams. The dictator rose from his seat, grabbed Pilgrim by the shoulders, and began to shake him violently. "Who did you release this morning? Who was it? Tell me now!" The guards rushed over and grabbed the Supreme Leader, one guard for each limb.

"We have to leave, sir!"

As the guards dragged the Supreme Leader out of the room, he stared at Pilgrim and began to scream.

"Such a lust for revenge! Who did you release? Who? Who?"

Pilgrim had never actually accepted the job, but he got the distinct impression that negotiations had ceased. Curious as to what was even going, he grabbed the intel packet and made a beeline back towards his waiting chopper.

"What the hell is going, sir?" the pilot asked.

"Less questions, more flying!" Pilgrim ordered. As the Sovn-copter lifted off and flew away, one final syllable could be heard, coming from the thoroughly spooked Supreme Leader. In the loudest voice that he could muster, he yelled his question, dragging it out as long as his lungs could handle it.

"Who?"


End file.
